


Chronicles Of L

by Zero2Nero



Series: Chronicles Of L [1]
Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 06:24:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14207049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zero2Nero/pseuds/Zero2Nero
Summary: This series will be based in a first person point of perspective on L's life. Not much is known about L in the series canonically, but this series aims to put some more... flesh? To his character. I'm trying to keep the main character as subjective as possible so that it's easy enough to project on to them, though there will be some basic traits and background characteristics for plot point. I feel like I should mention that I've never been in the foster care system so if YOU have and I've gotten something wrong, PLEASE feel free to message me about it and how I could fix it!





	Chronicles Of L

Red and white. Primal and pure, contrasting in an icy collision are that of your first memories. What comes before that, not even the deepest crevices within your mind will reveal that much. A child born from your own parents' blood, your mind had seized at an early age, preventing any form of speech from escaping from your lips.   
  
Three. That was the magic number. Third time’s the charm, third years a bitch. That’s the rough guess of how old you were when you were orphaned.   
  
Small child, middle of nowhere, with blood on you that matched your genetic makeup but wasn’t identifiable. You were, as easily as it comes, nameless. No plastered on ID that the people at the children home stuck on you seemed to fit.   
  
To be mute and an orphan, is basically bottom of the line shit faced luck. To live in a society that is loath to accommodate those with impairments such as yours? Unfortunate.   
  
Bottom line: Almost no one knows sign language at such a young age. Those families that want to take in a child with, “special needs,” don’t come to rural town foster care systems to take in mute kids. Those families, seem to only exist in movies. So you rot in that system, for a few years.   
  
Bottom Bottom line: State’s put pressure on the system to adopt you out.   
  
The average stay of a child in the foster care system is 13.5 months.   
  
So you went in and out of foster homes, with people who didn’t really have any idea of what they were doing.   
  
But you’d always end up back in the system, always back at the Shelter.   
  
The thing is, this isn’t a Cinderella story. Of course, there are teachers and aids that come to teach you. They show you how to understand and converse in sign language. Teach you how to write. But these people are only so extended. They can only do so much and the state can only afford to keep them employed there for so long.   
  
 You learn to read early enough. You understand it. You take private online courses. You excel. Somewhat. You get by. But three years go by and suddenly you’re six and working with fractions while the others struggle with addition and subtraction. You’re reading goosebumps while they’re reading, “My First Chapter Book!” Stories.   
  
 You’re not, “better,” than them. You’re not worse. You’ve just got different vices. They’ve got theirs.   
  
Like whispering insults as you move room to room, words like, “freak,” and, “weirdo,” cling to the cuff of your sleeve.   
  
 And then the end of the school year comes and your testing. It’s shit, but you get it done.   
And then…. Come the visitors.   
  
The thing about people coming to the foster house is that they never come to see you. Or at least, they don’t stick around once they realize you don’t have much to say. Sure, they’re polite about it, but it’s never  _you._    
  
Until today.      
  
The older man’s hair is fading to white, his attire prim and proper. As you sit at the table in the front office of the Shelter, the light from the ceiling panels above casts a hypnotizing glare off the man’s shoes, polished so finely with such care that you don’t hear a word of the conversation that the adults are having.   
  
The man has a kid with him. Though, you try not to make eye contact with him. You try not to notice him at all. The only thing you notice about him is that he’s huddled tightly behind the man’s legs, his eyes big on his face, obscured partially by fluffy dark hair.   
  
Their conversation goes on for a while longer, until the term, “transfer,” and, “unnecessary,” catch your attention. It was said by the woman who runs the foster house, and quite honestly, you couldn’t have agreed more with whatever she was saying.   
  
You didn’t  _like_  it there, but the thought of yet another move, another hour of quietly stuffing your belongings into garbage bags, which should take a while but doesn’t just isn’t a satisfying idea right now.   
  
And then there’s the Boy.   
  
It’s always the worst to have to try and live in a house with other kids your age. They fight and scream and pick on you because they think you’re an idiot. That you don’t understand them. They think they can  _get away with anything they want._  So now, because of those kids your age, you’ve learned to shrink into yourself. To be small and invisible.   
  
But the man’s got an accent. And you’re not sure why, but this seems to get you. It’s comforting. Vaguely like that of Winnie the Pooh, warm and lilting. From a briefcase that catches the light much like his shoes do, he pulls out a stack of papers. You catch the term, “test results,” and your interest is piqued.   
  
The adults argue politely and vaguely about this and that regarding details. He wants you moved to his facility, they want you to stay and get adopted. The term international is brought up. He wants to take you to England. He says you're smart.  
  
This warms the inside of your stomach, like honey dripping down your throat, these promises of a better life with a better education seem tempting. Like something to good to be true. But Occam's Razor says that the simplest solution is the better, more likely one. And that simplest solution is to stay here. Going in and out of private homes, ending up sharing a room with other kids for a while in the state home, rinse, wash, repeat. Nervously, you start signing to yourself in the palm of your hand.   
  
There’s something soothing about the motion, like the sensation of physical touch. Like writing, telling a story. Better than the hair picking that lots of kids picked up around you, and the nail biting, which you still were battling to taper down.   
  
Tentatively, the boy signs back at you from across the room. His gestures are shaky, and sometimes he doesn’t get it right, but it’s The First Conversation. The Big One. The First Communication With Them: The Alien Species That Are Other Fellow Six Year Old Kids. Or, maybe he’s seven, as he lets on, and is quick to remind you that he’s the Older Child.   
  
_“We’re taking you to a school,”_  the boy signs.   
_“Like, a private school?”_  You sign back. He nods.  
_“But, not really.”_  He gestures.  _“It’s more like an orphanage.”_    
Your eyes widen a bit, your hands fly wildly.  _“We’re not allowed to call it that.”_     
He shrugs his shoulders.  _“Well it is,”_  he signs lazily. You raise your eyebrows.  
_“Easy for you to say,”_  you counter.  _“You have a dad.”_    
The Boy looks from the man to you, down to his feet, clad only in small flip flops.   
_“He’s not my dad,”_  the Boy signs.  _“I’m just like you.”_    
  
Past that, you and the Boy talk. About foster homes, favourite foods and colors. Books. Things you can’t talk to the other kids about, things you never really could talk to them about. And then all to soon the man and the Boy leave, and you’re left staring at the window panel of the front door as it swings shut behind them. The Boy had said that they’d come back. As you turned to go back into the main part of the building where the other kids were, you hear a thwack against the glass of the door. Looking over your shoulder, you see the boy's hand splayed across the window.   
  
Quickly running over, you slap your hand against his through the glass. A somber promise.


End file.
